The Eye of Purgatory

by Jacques Spitz

  He shook his head. “It’s scarcely probable that I shall ever believe in Heaven. I make mock of it, of Heaven—it’s the Earth that interests me.”

  He was, however, far from presenting a fair countenance to the Earth.

  Forthrightly, with an authority all the more definitive because it was a matter of indifference to me, I declared: “Then the experiment is concluded.”

  A twitch ran across his face. His heart must have been hurting, for he raised his good hand to his breast to forage inside his waistcoat. There was some cruelty on my part in torturing that old man with diminished power of thought, whose pride was—I sensed rather than thought—suffering, because he had become my plaything, and saw me adopting a casual attitude toward him. I was about to stop exploiting my success and abandon the game when a sharper stab of pain caused his head suddenly to jerk backwards.

  He began: “Yvane. It was…” Then a second fainting-fit caused him to lose consciousness for a few seconds.

  “A drink,” he said, on coming round.

  I filled a glass, which I had to hold up to his lips.

  “The tablets in the little box, there on my desk.”

  I followed his indications.

  “Two,” he said.

  He took them, and swallowed them with a mouthful of water. His eyes never left me, staring at me in a jaundiced and malicious fashion. He resented me more than ever; I could feel it…but of what was he resentful? Perhaps being able to move freely, being healthy, and fundamentally indifferent to his physical and moral torment. The most curious thing was that he still refused to let me call anyone, and insisted that I remain alone with him.

  The tremor in his right hand, which he had concealed in the pocket of his jacket, was incessant. It had even reached his head, even though it was supported by the back of the divan, and a slight periodic creaking of the leather broke the silence of the room, like a cricket in the woodwork.

  “How droll life is,” he murmured. “One gets used to things, to people, without perceiving them. Through the house runs a little animal, lively, amusing, silent, a well-behaved child, whom one suddenly sees coming to a halt in doorways, wondering if she might come in. Once, going along a corridor, I stood on her doll’s plates. There was a flood of tears; I picked her up and put her on my knee to comfort her. I caressed her head, her fine hair, tied up in a red ribbon…that must have been when it all began.”

  He was mumbling, in a thick voice that I had difficulty following. I thought he was becoming delirious, but he opened his eyes and he gaze fell upon me, harsh and very keen—a gaze that made no appeal for pity, and before which I instinctively put myself on guard.

  “Yvane,” he said, without taking his eyes off me. “It was me who killed her.”

  I succeeded in remaining impassive. The hostility of his gaze had warned me that it was necessary to expect a direct blow. Not one of my eyelashes quivered. To tell the truth, I didn’t understand immediately, and before the full meaning of the confession got through to me, I only realized why I was still there, what obscure force had kept me in the presence of that half-dead old man. Now I knew, and my first impression was almost one of relief.

  He had closed his eyes again before my impassive face. He went on, stammering, searching for his words.

  “A rival is born—that’s something from a novel. It doesn’t matter—there’s truth in it. The same image revives, fresher and younger, next to the old one, which fades away without one being aware of it. The little hand that disappears into the large paw that one holds out grows bigger day by day. The voice becomes nuanced, the mid becomes more precise; something entirely new is there, in a bud that will blossom. It’s a recommencement, one is gripped again by things that one held fifteen years before. One is unaware of one’s own aging—and then, one asks for nothing, save for a presence, and that diffuse impression of contentment, of lightness, that the mere sight of a gracious face procures. One is also without suspicion.

  “She lifted up her hair to braid it in spirals behind her ears. It was her first grown-up hair-do; she asked me if it suited her. Everything suited her; my smile was my reply. That was in a boat; we were coming down the Rhine during the holidays, leaning on the rail. Her ear, bitten by the cold wind, went pink. We were making the voyage together, a philopena that I had lost.7 I’d bought a large umbrella, of which she made fun.

  “One doesn’t know, one never knows anything of what is happening, fundamentally. What was I searching for in books, in the laboratory? I forgot to live in trying to divine the secrets of life. But others were living in my stead, and to watch others live, when one loves them, is sufficient. We had our first secrets—it was me who covertly gave her money to buy her first car. One day, when she was preparing for her baccalaureat, she came to ask me to explain the nervous system to her, in a few words. She was preparing for the oral, and was afraid, so timid was she. The nervous system, in a few words!”

  He opened his eyes to say: “She was sitting where you are, listening with a touching good will to explanations that had never been so confused. It pained me to see her forehead furrowed attentively because of my clumsiness in expressing myself. Those wrinkles hollowed out between her eyebrows were still child-like; that was the only sign that my words could awaken in her face…

  “When death determined that we remained alone, I kissed her through the veil of mourning, I knew the taste of her tears. For myself, I didn’t weep, I wasn’t in pain. I wasn’t aware of a displacement of affection. Life went on. Every day I was struck by the increasing resemblance to her mother. It wasn’t only her arms and her gait, but the expressions on her face, her little habits, the way she threw her hat aside when she came into the hallway, the same musical intonation in long words, her liking for the same flowers, the same delight punctuated by hesitations and reticences, and an occasional bizarre sadness in her gaze. The woman I had always loved was still present. She kept the house with a touching application. We scarcely talked to one another—I didn’t know what to say to her. Certain attentions, filial in inspiration, charmed me. When you appeared, I hated you immediately, for it was only at that moment that I began to understand. It was necessary for me to fight; I fought.

  “I fought. I never recovered from finding the sickness so profound and deep-rooted for such a long time. I employed every possible means: reasoning, moral rigidity, obsessive work; I went so far as to treat myself, in order to sterilize certain zones of my sentimental imagination! Why did I continue to refuse to accept the inevitable? Without mentioning insurmountable obstacles, I was old, and my prestige was too fragile by comparison with a single youthful smile. I fought. Nature laughs heartily at our determination. The more I shut myself up in the laboratory in order to forget, the more the sickness tormented me. What miseries are hidden beneath the most indifferent appearances! An old fool with the soul of a child! A horrible jealousy devoured me. My last chance in life was escaping me without my being able to prevent it. It was necessary. I had to consent to it. Why, then, did you come to tell me what was going to happen?”

  I listened in spite of myself, sickened and as if crushed by a particular kind of horror. With the pronouncement of Yvane’s name, I had felt all the memories engraved in my mind come to life again. The image that I had believed dead, or distant, regained its presence, the flesh of my flesh. And if I still did not react more extravagantly, it was because my whole mind and body were no more than a confused and dolorous mass, and because the awakening of that pain occupied me entirely.

  “I fought. In doing so, I came to consider you as a savior. You were helping me, without knowing it, to fight the good fight. I encouraged your meetings. I hoped that things would work out, that, sensing that she was more attracted to you with every passing day, seeing her acquire from someone else a happiness that I could never hope to give her, I would get used to it…

  “I didn’t get used to it. The jealousy, far from being extinguished, became even more unbearable. I was not so much jealous of you
, nor of her, but of the youth that you both had, of the youth that authorized you to show your sentiments in broad daylight and without shame, while at my age, under pain of being an object of repulsion and disgust, they had to be buried.

  “Yvane no longer even saw me; I bored her; she scarcely appeared at meals. She withdrew from my life. I could not reconcile myself to that void. I came to think that I would have preferred to see her die…why, then, did you come at that moment? Why did you notify me that it was going to happen? You revealed to me what I was going to do, which I didn’t yet suspect myself…and once I knew, what point was there in fighting? What was the point of my anguish? I was marked for the frightful task,8 I had to succumb. There was nothing to divert me, to tempt me. From that day on, I stopped fighting. It was you who pushed me over the edge, you who pronounced the sentence of destiny upon me.”

  So, not content to display his ignominy, he was claiming…

  “You’re vile!” I shouted at him.

  “I know,” he said. “I don’t care.” And his half-paralyzed face creased into a sort of smile. But why was he smiling?

  He had succeeded in plunging me back into a nightmare. I was the one who, horrified in the face of his monstrous calmness, at the idea of a possible culpability, felt a criminal anguish squeezing my heart. He was humming now, and, believe me, his voice took on a near-triumphant tone.

  “I loved her, I killed her, as they say in the assize court. “With a few nuances, I could say as much—and you, too, could say as much. Our means were different—but dead, she belongs as much to one of us as to the other. She belongs to anyone who can evoke her memory, and I hold a trump card that you don’t have. Dirk is dead—in Heaven, you say; well, my dear Pierre, he’ll give me news of Yvane before you…”

  I could not restrain myself. I passed from horror to disgust, from repulsion o the desire to use both hands to wring the wrinkled neck from which that frightful confession had emerged, with rattles in the throat and expulsions of phlegm. I got to me feet abruptly. For an instant, I hesitated. Then I slapped him twice, with all my strength. His head wobbled from right to left and from left to right against the back of the divan. I marched to the door. Behind me, a raucous sound rose up within the room.

  He was laughing.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  I slammed the door, and fled into the corridor. I no longer wanted to see anything or hear anything. The mud that had just been stirred up never ceased to give off noxious poisons. It seemed to me to be saturated with them, to the utmost depths of my being. That which I had treasured more than anything else in the world would henceforth be utterly soiled. When I had believed that I was living on a level a little higher than the ordinary, I awoke floundering in a muddy pool and nameless horrors.

  A hand was placed on my arm; I shook it off.

  “What’s the matter, Pierre?”

  Narda was trying to stop me as I passed by. “Where are you going? I was waiting for you—I wanted to talk to you…”

  “I’m going away,” I replied, brutally. “I’m going away—don’t ask me for anything more.” And almost running, I went out on to the road beyond the gate, in order to flee as quickly as possible.

  She followed me. “At least tell me what happened! One would think that you were afraid.”

  “I’m going away. I don’t want to have anything to do with this place any longer. Your uncle is a monster. If I have any advice to give you, it’s to do as I do. Find relatives or friends to take you in—don’t stay in this house for another hour.”

  I spoke without turning round, as if I were being pursued. She trotted along beside me.

  “Come on—I need an explanation,” she declared.

  It was difficult for me to give her an explanation as complete as was necessary. I could at least say something, though. While striding on at a rapid pace, I told her the whole story of Dirk, the roulette, the Bourse, the doctor’s experiment, everything that I had seen and everything that he had told me.

  And then a sentence emerged from that naïve mouth which brought me to an abrupt halt.

  “And you believed him?” she said, ironically.

  “What?” I stammered. “Did I believe him? I had to…” At the same time, though, for the first time, doubt sprang forth in my mind like a lightning-flash. Why had I not asked the question that Narda posed so candidly before? Had I allowed myself to be deceived, like the worst of imbeciles?

  “I’m almost sure that he’s never won at roulette or on the Bourse,” Narda went on. “I receive the mail, and I’ve never found any evidence there that he’s acquired the fortune you attribute to him. Without being constrained, our situation is far from being as brilliant as one might believe.”

  That simple factual information, given in a frank voice and with a smile, shook me again. I had never actually witnessed the gains that the doctor had told me he had won at roulette. On reflection, however, the hypothesis of a deception was impossible. “But after all,” I protested, “there are other things. I’ve witnessed experiments. I’ve seen your uncle operate. His knowledge and sincerity are beyond doubt.”

  “Oh, I’ve had abundant opportunity to observe that he doesn’t doubt it,” Narda went on. “I believe that he’s sincere, but he’s deceiving himself. That’s what I wanted to discuss with you, and that’s why I asked you to come. Gradually, he’s convinced himself that he can know the future. The future! Come on—that’s impossible! I don’t understand all the scientific explanations at all. That he’s rendered Dirk stupid is certain—but what’s also probable is that the ease with which the poor fellow is amenable to suggestion has done the rest, and has permitted my uncle to delude himself. The interest that you’ve appeared to take in his studies might also have provoked him, with all the sincerity in the world, to deceive you. He’s been acting out a comedy, and he’s ended up believing it himself.”

  “But then…” I said.

  “Yes,” she said, “I think he’s mad, possessed by a curious folly. He’s become the prisoner of his simulation—or, if you prefer, he’s gone mad by virtue of being able to believe in his experiment. I wanted him to be examined unawares by a specialist physician. You could have introduced, as one of your friends, a doctor in whom we could have confidence.”

  I stood there, by the side of the road. The doctor was mad. That seemed almost obvious now. By the same token, that madness removed any value from his frightful confession, and his accusations. He had been delirious while speaking to me a little while ago. I began to breathe more freely. At the same time, listening to Narda speak procured me a curious impression of relief. Her common sense brought me back to reality. It was admirable that a head not yet twenty years old had seen clearly at first glance, which such convincing lucidity, in a situation in which I had sunk into the mud.

  “In truth, Narda, what you say would explain many things. I should have thought of it sooner. But what led you to think that…?”

  “It seems quite natural to me. While you were ill, I talked to the physicians that were in charge of you. I also saw other patients. I noticed that mad people almost never appear to be mad…and I made the connection.”

  It was, however, necessary to make sure. Now I was the one who wanted to proceed urgently to the psychiatric examination that Narda had suggested. I didn’t lose a moment. I took one of the doctors at the clinic where I had been cared for to one side and explained the case to him. That afternoon we returned to the villa, on the pretext of paying a friendly call on Dr. Mops.

  A strange noise greeted us at the entrance. One might have thought that it was an accordion of harmonium. The servants seemed to be absent. I took Narda’s place marching at the front and headed for the first floor. The noise became clearer: music composed of percussive notes, a sort of brisk dance, wild and refined at the same time, evoking the spirits of the air: a ballet of sparks. Where had I heard music like that before?

  Without knocking, I opened the double door of the study, and a gust of incense hit me
in the face. The room was full of thick white vapor. Gradually, the air current dissipated it. In one corner, two Javanese men were crouching in front of their xylophones, tapping out as hard as they could the Balinese tunes with which the cremation of cadavers is accompanied out there. But a large organ was suddenly unleashed in the smoke. A voice, in which the doctor’s timbre was recognizable, began to sing:

  “Au ciel! Au ciel! Au ciel!

  “J’irai la voir un jour….”9

  Then we perceived Dirk in the midst of the smoke, sitting in front of a bottle of whisky, and finally, the doctor himself. He had turned up to the maximum a gramophone that was playing a record by Franck. Having put on a long white smock over his clothes, with his head tilted back toward the ceiling, he was reeling off all the religious songs he knew:

  “Esprit sain, descendez en nous…”10

  As the Javanese had ceased striking their instruments at the sight of us, he noticed us, and aimed a revolver at them. “In the name of God, play!” he roared.

  The Béatitudes, howled in a furious fashion, continued to rend our ears. The odor of incense was unbreathable.

  “There’s no need to see any more,” the physician whispered in my ear.

  I exchanges glances with Narda. The expression on her face was striking. It rendered the sentiment I inspired by the scene exactly: a resigned sadness. Her calmness had not been mistaken; she had found the right note instinctively.

  It was necessary to draw closer to the maniac, whose back was turned to us. Suddenly, he perceived me. “No, no” he cried. “No murderers in Heaven!”

  The words were lost in the brief struggle that followed. Soon, a special vehicle took Dirk and the doctor away.

  After that abrupt denouement, I found myself alone at the hotel where my suitcases were waiting for me. The thoughts that had inevitably been displaced somewhat during the afternoon’s comings and goings return to assail me. The doctor’s insanity threw glimmers into the past that completely altered its lighting and significance. If he could be regarded as an irresponsible madman, the measure of involuntary responsibility that I had had in the events increased in proportion. “Murderer”—the last word that he had hurled at me, echoed for a long time within me. In that horrible adventure into which I had been dragged without understanding any of it, my role was revealed as frightful. I had been lacking in judgment and suspicion, to the point of directing the maniac toward his victim. Of what blindness had I given proof! I had seen nothing, sensed nothing of everything that was happening between the individuals with whom I had lived for weeks. Like an ignorant child, I had passed by the frightful secrets resident in other hearts without being aware of them, without being alerted to them, too egotistically wrapped-up and sequestered within my own sentiments. I had not wanted to see anything other than Yvane; I had only had eyes and thoughts for her; now I had to pay the price.